Becker turned to Timmons. “Eddie?” he said. “It’s for you.”
He was still smiling as he walked out the door.
An Ingraft of Evil
by James Lincoln Warren
These were decadent days, thought Dr. Tindle. The seed of mankind had not run true, and abominations abounded. Aquae Sulis this town had once been called: the Waters of Minerva, in dedication to the virgin goddess of righteous war. And now? It was simply and ludicrously Bath, as if it were some licentious Turkish bagnio filled to the brim with idleness, sin, and frivolity.
Where once brave Roman legionaries had used the mineral waters to harden their bodies for battle against the brutish Picts and Scots, where centurions and cohorts purified themselves by flushing the effluvia of death and corruption from their skins, now rakehells and whores revelled in disease, and silken-clad ponces traipsed effeminately to the strains of minuets, bobbing and smiling at bare-bosomed harlots bedizened with towers of silver-painted hair.
But the trumpet would sound soon! By his own calculations, assisted by scripture and signs, Dr. Tindle had fixed the First Day as December 22, 4227 B.C. The Seventh Millennium was nearly at hand! Judgment would descend at dawn, this December 22, 1773, barely a month hence, and the world would feel the wrath of the Lord of Lords.
“Confutatis maledictus flammis acribus addictus, voca me cum benedictus!” he muttered, scowling below his full-bottomed wig and turning aside so that no one would hear him — the street was crowded, and it was a bright autumn day, the sky blazing azure above them — When the damned are confounded and tossed into the acrid fire, call me with the blessed!
Oh, the damned would rue the day! But he, John Tindle, would be among the elect! Was he not the agent of God?
He patted his coat pocket where the vial of variolus rested. It was a new word for an old scourge, but he approved of its stately Latin rhythm — much more dread-sounding than the prosaic smallpox.
Was he not the Avenger?
Captain Magnus Gunn was at sea after a long stint ashore, and although he was delighted to be going to New York, where there was need for firm hands to control the stubborn colonists, his beautiful wife Charlotte was in a morose state. His absence meant giving up the residence in town, at least for the next several months, and adieu to the amusements of Drury Lane, Ranelagh, and the Pantheon. And there was the unfinished project of being invited to Almack’s — it might now never come to fruition!
And for what? Her father’s dull house in Exeter?
Alan Treviscoe noted without seeming to do so (it was his way) that the barbs she customarily hurled in his direction had lost much of their force. He had grown very skilled in the last few years at hiding his thoughts behind a pensive and languid face, a useful talent in his peculiar profession as an indagator of frauds against the assurance men at Lloyd’s. It was particularly useful when he found himself in the company of Mrs. Gunn.
The bond between them was a strange one, he thought, sitting on one of the remaining chairs and watching the handsome harpy tyrannize the laborers who were engaged in packing her most precious belongings. Although she and he mutually despised one other, they were united in their regard for her absent husband and in ties of affection for the remainder of her family, the Merwoods.
And of course, there was the simple fact that Magnus had asked Treviscoe to “watch over my lady.” A more unwelcome commission than most, however expected, but he was honor-bound to accept it with all due vigilance.
“Alan,” Charlotte said suddenly, her voice uncharacteristically sweet — she almost never called him by his Christian name — “I’ve had a most happy inspiration.”
“Indeed?”
“I think you should take me to Bath — ’tis fashionable this time of the year, and the expense will not be so great as in London. I have it in mind to visit with my Aunt Phelps, although there can be no question of my joining the household — but it is conveniently nearby Exeter, so there can be no quarrel to be expected from my father. He would want me to maintain myself in appropriate style, being the wife of a king’s officer, don’t you agree? He can’t find fault with that argument, certainly.”
Treviscoe wanted to say that even the direct Dr. Merwood would think twice before crossing his formidable eldest daughter and so she was right on that account, but discretion prevailed. “If you wish to be escorted thither, I shall only be too delighted to oblige.”
“Hero shall have to come, too, shan’t he? I do wish you’d allow me the use of him until I can find my own domestics.”
Treviscoe frowned. Her dismissal of the idea of lodging with her aunt could only be due to said aunt’s unexceptional social status; Mr. Phelps, if memory served, was a well-to-do yeoman farmer, not what one would consider a country squire. Hero, Treviscoe’s personal manservant and amanuensis, was of African extraction, and Treviscoe was aware that the presence of a black servant would confer a certain prestige upon Charlotte’s household in accord with the prevailing taste. It would do no good to point out that his relationship with Hero was based more on mutual esteem than on the exigencies of ton, so he weighed his words carefully.
“In spite of his situation, Mrs. Gunn, Hero is very much his own man, performing service at his own will, and not beholden unto me in any way,” he replied, “although should you wish to engage him temporarily for the purpose you suggest, you have my permission to present such a proposal to him.”
“That’s as good as settled, then,” she purred, apparently insensitive to what he had just said.
“Will you invite Miss Merwood to join you?” he asked suddenly. He had put his finger on the one weakness in her plan: she could hardly be expected to take up residence in Bath alone.
“Yes,” she said slowly, her large blue eyes narrowing. “Yes, I suppose I must do.” She was aware of her sister Elizabeth’s and Treviscoe’s partiality for one another, and she resented being outmaneuvered.
Treviscoe smiled complacently.
“It’s the lancet that’s needed here, Dr. Tindle,” whispered Mr. Willard Labbett, surgeon. He spoke in hushed terms of respect, his speech only mildly slurred by gin. For whatever reason, the Oxford-educated physician had enlisted Labbett as his medical factotum, and Labbett was flattered that the natural enmity between a university-trained physician and a mere surgeon had been suspended. Dr. Tindle even condescended to ask Labbett’s opinion! “Your emetics are very well, but I’ve never seen a better case for bleeding. There’s the fever and all.”
Dr. Tindle looked down at the flushed girl child and hid his distaste. The child was a beauty by any standards. The impending doom of mankind would prevent her accession to tempting womanhood, but he already felt her stirring his baser nature.
“The lancet by all means, Mr. Labbett.”
His face grimacing with a suppressed grin, Labbett unfolded his tools. “We shall be needing a bowl for the bloodletting.”
Dr. Tindle placed his hand gently on Labbett’s arm.
“I should be honored if you would use my instrument for the purpose, Mr. Labbett. It is of the finest Greenwich steel, and superior, I think, to your own.”
“I am the one who should be honored, sir!”
Dr. Tindle smiled wisely. “Our combined skills are surely required in this case, Mr. Labbett. Together, we shall see the child through.”
He turned to the fretting mother. “With the help of God, Mrs. Phelps, a resolution to this crisis shall be forthcoming.”
Mrs. Phelps wiped away her tears with a stained handkerchief. “Please, doctor, save young Lucy! If only my brother were here! He, like you, is a man of medicine.”